


If I Could Have Chosen

by soproudofya



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Hurt/Comfort, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soproudofya/pseuds/soproudofya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris has been keeping a secret his entire life. At thirty-five, he snaps and comes clean: he’s transgender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to:  
>  **JunoMagic** for being the best beta, putting up with my difficult ass and listening to me whine, and just generally mothering the shit out of me.
> 
> **Silent-Bridge** for the amazing art and being a peach.  <3
> 
> And **Birdy** , because this started off as a joke about Chris being a soccer mom and I immediately took it in the most angsty direction possible.

He’s with his family and Zach when Katie announces her pregnancy. Of course Chris is happy for her, and he’s thrilled at the prospect of having a little niece or nephew to dote on, especially since he and Zach won’t be pursuing adoption for a while.

But his smile feels forced. There’s a knot in his chest. He wants to go home, lock himself in the study, and cry.

He lasts another hour before he starts nagging Zach to leave, claiming he can feel a migraine coming on. “Besides,” he says, “it’s getting late.”

(It’s not even eleven.)

In the car, he chain-smokes and stares at the dashboard, wondering why the fuck these things have to plague him at the most inopportune moments. Why does he always make it about himself? Why can’t he think about anything other than how _wrong_ he feels?

 

• • •

 

They're one step closer to the American dream.

Marriage? Check.

Buying a house together? Check.

Kids...

Zach talks about it more than he does, because Chris can only think about his future for so long before he starts hyperventilating. But he definitely wants kids.

And he really doesn't want to fuck this up.

He tries his best to ignore the intrusive thoughts. It's his wedding day, for fuck's sake.

 

• • •

 

On principle, Chris avoids any media related to gender, especially if other people are around. Chances are he’ll get weepy, and he can only blame that on his sensitivity so many times.

“This sounds interesting,” Zach says, looking to Chris as his thumb hovers over the ‘okay’ button on the remote. It’s some documentary about transgender children.

Chris leans into him. “Yeah, sounds good.”

By the end, he’s held together by a thread. Zach squeezes Chris’ shoulder every time he sniffles.

“If one of our kids is trans, you’ll support them, right?” he asks quietly. He shifts so he can peek up at Zach, who’s looking at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Of course I will,” he answers, as though it’s the _only_ answer. Chris hopes he looks baffled because he’s asking such an absurd question and not _why_ he’s asking. “Hands down, no questions asked.”

Chris sighs. “Good,” he murmurs, and sits upright for a kiss. For now, that’s enough to put him at ease.

 

• • •

 

Sometimes, Chris is too repulsed by his body to look in the mirror. He's been having these days since puberty set in, but at least back then he could attribute most of that disgust to his acne.

If Zach catches him staring in the mirror, he blames it on that residual insecurity, which isn’t a _complete_ lie.

He’s thirty. He wonders how much longer he can keep up the façade.

 

• • •

 

At twenty-four, his family urges him to seek therapy for his depressive episodes, so he does. And because he doesn’t mention _it_ , he leaves every session feeling just as depressed.

 

• • •

 

The first time Chris gets fucked, it’s by some guy in his World Lit class. Tall, strawberry-blonde hair, built like a brick shithouse; not his type, but he takes what he can get.

As soon as the dude pushes inside, he knows that he definitely, one hundred percent prefers this to topping. It almost feels right—almost, but not quite.

 

• • •

 

_Where do you see yourself in 10 years?_

The heading alone makes him tense, never mind the fact that he actually has to _think_ about the future. He’s sixteen, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life, at least not in terms of what everyone else wants to hear—he can’t turn in an essay about how he desperately wants to wake up dickless, can he?

(He bullshits the paper and says he wants to be an English teacher.)

 

• • •

 

He’s starting to change.

His voice cracks constantly. His skin is getting worse. Chris is fairly certain he has more and more blemishes everyday.

He's starting to change, and he's not sure why it makes him so upset. He always hopes it will be different in the morning, but he wakes up feeling the same.

 

• • •

 

Katie always wants to try new makeup techniques on Chris before using them on herself.  It's annoying for both of them—Katie gripes when he moves too much, and Chris whines every time she accidentally jabs him in the eye.

"You're such a baby," she says, jabbing him in the shoulder with her eyeliner pencil. "Go clean that shi— _stuff_ off before Dad gets home."

Chris scurries off to the bathroom to wash his face. Now that he can't really feel all the gunk caked on his eyes, it's not too bad, and he actually kind of likes the way he looks. He's reminded of a friend's older sister, the one who always wears headphones and has black stuff smeared around her eyes. She's really, really pretty (among other things that contribute to Chris' long-standing crush on her), and he wonders if the makeup makes him pretty, too.

He likes how it looks, but he still scrubs every last bit of eyeliner off. The only time his dad ever saw him after Katie painted him up... he wasn't mad, but he wasn't happy about it, either, and Chris doesn't want to disappoint his dad.

 

• • •

 

When he’s five and asked what he wants to be when he grows up, the answer is easy.

“A mommy,” he says proudly. That’s what Katie would say, and the only person Chris looks up to more than her is their mother—as far as he can tell, _his_ mommy is a superhero. She makes him spaghetti, puts band-aids on his perpetually scraped knees, hugs him tight when he wakes up from nightmares. He’s a mama’s boy through and through.

He’s happy with that answer, but his then-best friend snorts.

“Boys can’t be mommies, dummy,” he’s told. “Girls are mommies.”

 


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurts in a way it never has before, like he's bursting at the seams and falling apart.

In the next section over is a Latina with two little ones: a boy, maybe four years old kicking his tiny legs against the cart, and a baby girl strapped to her chest. Chris could lie to himself and say he's envious of her having children, but his inner monologue is protesting; _you know why_ , it's saying. _You know it's not the fucking kids._

Chris hasn't felt this bad since Katie was pregnant—he's had difficult moments, of course, because only in an alternate universe could he go five years without feeling that itch, that constant reminder that something's not right.

Lately, though, it's been worse, especially the past few weeks: he doesn't want to get out of bed, leave the house, let alone talk to anyone. He and Zach haven't had sex in almost a month because he can't stand being touched. Chris worries that Zach will simply know it's something more than depression.

The woman he's staring at right now, she's gorgeous—long, silky hair, the softest features, petite. But what gets him is how she looks so at ease, like she's totally comfortable; like no one else in the world exists, just herself and her babies. He tries to remember ever feeling like that, and he can't. He's never felt one-hundred percent comfortable in his skin and he's always been aware of that but now he is _really_ , excruciatingly aware, only able to focus on the sinking feeling in his gut.

He looks back down at the crate of pears he's been standing in front of for god knows how long, glares at the one in his hand that he's squeezed half to death, his mission to find a single decent piece of fruit long forgotten. The uneasy feeling in his stomach turns into a knot in his chest, and shame flows hot in his veins. He of all people knows better than to stare; he knows he shouldn't be seething with jealousy because of a perfect stranger.

Chris jumps at the hand on his shoulder, dropping the pear to hastily wipe his eyes before spinning on his heel to face Zach. "All of these are fucking bruised," he spits, and snatches the bag of peppers from Zach to toss them in the cart.

His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears. He has to get out of here.

"Jesus, what's gotten into you?" Zach asks.

"You know I hate it when you do that," Chris snaps. "Handing shit to me when you're perfectly capable of throwing it in the cart yourself."

"Chris," he hisses. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"I just want to go home."

"Can you wait until we're in the car to be inexplicably pissed at me?"

"I'm not pissed at you." Chris white-knuckles the cart's handle, staring at the scuffed floor. "I'm anxious."

Understatement.

Zach sighs. Now _he_ is the one digging through pears, but stops long enough to fish his keys out of his pocket and hand them to Chris. "I'll be out in a few."

Chris is crying even as he speed-walks to the car, every repressed emotion starting to pour out before he can fumble with the keys before remembering there's a button on the fucking key fob.

He's always wondered if there would be a tipping point, and if so what it would be.

_This is it_ , he thinks.

It hurts. It hurts in a way it never has before, like he's bursting at the seams and falling apart. His throat feels full like he might vomit and he tries to think of all the calming exercises he's learned in therapy, but he can't remember them and he can't control his breathing and he sure as shit can't hold back the loud, ugly sobs forcing their way out. He can't control this thing as a whole, and he's so tired. Tired of jealousy throwing daggers he can't dodge, tired of the bone-deep, aching depression that turns his limbs to lead after dreams where everything is the way it should be. Where he is right and not wrong.

For so long, it's been 'I don't want to do this.' It's been suicidal thoughts and ultimately sucking it up because he's too chickenshit, too scared to off himself and too scared to fix the root of his problems. He's spent years, decades, the majority of his life hiding and trying to ignore it.

Now, it's "I can't do this." _Can’t_. He can't downplay it anymore, not when he's crying snot-and-tears in the car because he still feels five years old—still five, still crushed that he can't be a mommy.

He isn't crying as much when Zach returns, but he's still sobbing so hard that he knows he'll feel it in his shoulders tomorrow. He’s still hurting, still falling apart, falling right into this huge, gaping hole in his chest where his heart is supposed to be.

“You okay?” Zach asks as he ducks into the car.

Chris laughs, but it sounds more like a wheeze. "Fantastic," he croaks.

“I’m sorry I bitched at you.”

“It’s fine.”

Zach sighs and drops his hand on Chris’ arm, fingers curling around his wrist. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

Of course Chris does, but how? He’s even practiced saying it before, standing in front of the mirror mouthing ‘I’m transgender’ over and over until he’s shaking, but he’s never said it out loud. And now that it seems like he’s going to—now that he _wants_ to—Chris wishes he had, if only because it would have been nice to hear it before he fucks everything up.

Because what they have is undeniably good. They’ve always had that, even as vaguely acquainted cast mates, and Chris can’t imagine this ruining their friendship. And Zach has transgender friends, whom he loves and supports. But will that be enough? What about their marriage, the life they've built together, all their plans? Will those stay more or less the same, or will he destroy everything?

On the other hand, what about himself?

“N-not now.” Chris drums his fingers on the door’s panel. “When we get home.”

At least that gives him time to think.

  


• • •

  


Zach pulls him down on the couch, not bothering to bring the groceries in, and sits across from him on the coffee table. “Please tell me what’s wrong,” he says, placing his hands on Chris’ knees. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

Rationally, Chris knows he has no real reason to be afraid: Zach isn’t exactly the gold star gay he’s advertised as. He's fucked women. He's even had brief—albeit unsuccessful—relationships with women.

But what if he’s mad at Chris for lying? Chris has read about that, about husbands and wives getting angry with their spouse for hiding such a huge thing for so long. During past phases when he thought he _might_ come out, he contemplated that a lot and, of course, resigned to never say anything—

And here he fucking is. Sitting across from his husband, hoping like hell Zach will still want to share a bed with him at the end of the night.

“I’m sorry,” Chris says. “This is really hard.”

“Just spit it out.”

Chris tosses his head back and blinks hard, as if that’s enough to keep him from crying more. “I can’t just spit it out. This is _huge_.”

“God, what… did you cheat on me?”

“No!” He jerks his head to look back at Zach. “Fuck no!”

“Do you want to break up?”

“ _No_ , I don’t want to break up.”

“I don’t know what else it could be, Chris.” Zach pulls his hands away and crosses his arms, rests his elbows on his knees. “You’ve been so distant lately, way more than you usually are when you get like this. I just want to know what’s wrong.”

Chris sniffs. His head hurts. The knot in his throat is threatening to cut off his air and his mouth is bone dry.

Fuck it, he thinks. _Three…_

_Two…_

_One…_

Fuck.

Chris exhales and blurts, “I’m transgender.”

Zach's eyebrows shoot up. Then, he blinks slowly, his mouth opening a little.

“I should have said something sooner but I was afraid I’d fuck everything up, and I just can’t do this anymore.” Now that he’s said it, the words are spilling out. “I know you’re attracted to women _sometimes_ but not a lot and I was afraid that wouldn’t apply to me.”

“Baby,” Zach says quietly. He sits next to Chris and hugs him, his arms loose but his touch comforting. “That is literally the least awful thing you could have said to me. Like, compared to what I’ve been imagining, it’s honestly kind of ludicrous that you were afraid to tell me.”

“It’s not ludicrous,” Chris insists. “This shit can ruin perfectly good relationships, and that _terrifies_ me.”

“I’m not trying to invalidate you—”

“But you _are_ ,” he interrupts.

Zach winces. “What I’m trying to say is this doesn’t change anything. I mean, I didn’t see this coming, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. Look at me,” Zach says, bringing his hand up to cup Chris’ jaw and urge him to turn his head. “I love you.”

He huffs and drops his hands in his lap, presses his palms flat against his thighs. Chris feels as raw as the skin around his eyes, chafed from how roughly he's been rubbing them. "But I don't want to be your husband anymore. I want to be your wife."

"So be my wife."

  


• • •

  


Nevertheless, Chris is still nervous that he'll wake up alone, only to find a note saying they can meet up somewhere to sign the divorce papers. He only mentions it to Zach after he dreams it vividly and wakes up with his heart racing and hands trembling so much he can barely hold his phone to check the time.

"You know my complete sexual and romantic history, Chris," Zach says, and Chris can hear the twinge of frustration he's trying to hide. "What can I do to assure you that I'm not going to leave?"

He pulls the covers up to his chin. "Have you ever considered that your, uh, romantic pursuits with women didn't work because you weren't attracted to them beyond a physical level?"

"Yes, I've considered that." Zach tugs the comforter away from Chris' face and moves closer, draping his arm over Chris' hip. "May I point out that I'm currently married to a woman, one that I'm most definitely attracted to beyond a physical level? And if she says something about how I thought I was marrying a man, I'll kick her ass?"

Chris is surprised at how... strange it feels, being called 'she.' Not that it’s wrong, but having it acknowledged for the first time while he’s still struggling to remember that this is okay now, he can let his guard down at home, he can be himself around Zach—it’s overwhelming.

His eyes are welling up but he refuses to cry again, even though these aren’t sad tears; he’s been crying a lot this week. From anxiety and exhaustion, from emotional hangovers, and from immense relief every time Zach takes his hands and rubs his thumb over Chris’ wedding band.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Zach murmurs.

Chris groans because of _course_ he’s over-thinking, even with the fog of sleep and his usual morning hypoglycemia clouding his brain. “It’s just weird to hear you say that.”

“What?”

“‘She.’”

“Do you not like it?”

"No, no, I do. But... don't, okay? I'm still trying to see myself that way. As a woman," he says, as if it needs clarification. "Because I spent so much time trying to convince myself that I'm not."

Zach brings his hand up to Chris' cheek and kisses him softly. "Just say when."

Chris thinks that maybe— _maybe_ things will turn out okay.

  


• • •

  


Chris has always been a sucker for stargazing dates, even if it means drinking beer by the fire pit, discussing whatever comes to mind. Politics, the dogs, music, therapy, whether or not Zach's been talking in his sleep.

Zach has been playing some of his chill-indie-hipster bands from his phone for background noise the entire time they've been out here, give or take an hour and a half. When Zach returns with round two, he pauses the music and sits next to Chris rather than across from him.

"So, I've been thinking," he begins, which is the most terribly ominous way he could ever start a conversation given their current situation. "This makes a lot of sense. You being trans, I mean."

"Does it?"

"Like, your personality and temperament and how you're so conscious of pronouns. Oh, and how you do all these things that you consider super masculine. Like growing the beard and wearing all those dirty-ass boots."

On cue, Chris scratches his jaw. He doesn't have the beard right now, but a few days worth of stubble. "What are you getting at?"

"I get why you're afraid of me leaving. But you've always been this way, right?"

"Yeah, but it'll be different when—" he pauses. He's not sure when 'if' became 'when,' but it rattles his nerves. "If I transition."

Zach cocks his head to the side. "What do you mean, if?"

"I don't know if I can handle transitioning under the public eye." Chris inhales deeply and takes a long drink, hoping it will quell the anxiety building in his chest at the mere thought. They haven't talked in-depth about transitioning, and he was sort of hoping to keep it that way for the foreseeable future. "But... if I do, I'm gonna change more than just physically."

"It's not like your entire personality will change. You'll still be the same person I fell in love with."

"Do you think I should?" After a moment's hesitation, he adds, "Spare me the speech about authenticity."

"I want you to be yourself." Zach turns in his chair, resting his head against the back. "I want you to do whatever will allow you to live the best life possible."

People have always told him about this look Zach gets sometimes when he's gazing at Chris, one where his eyes are less piercing and his resting face doesn't seem so bitchy and it's apparently obvious that Zach his head over heels for him.

He's learned to pinpoint it. Zach is wearing that look now, and Chris guesses it's a good sign that Zach still gives him butterflies after seven years.

  


• • •

  


Chris hasn’t been to therapy in almost eight years, and certainly never with the intent of talking about his gender dysphoria, let alone with a qualified gender therapist.

Zach tags along because Chris is so worked up he almost throws up his peanut butter toast. He keeps his hand on Chris’ knee even while they get through the general niceties and insurance questions.

So far, Chris likes Dr. Alkaev—she’s this petite, dark-skinned Russian lady with a thick accent that, over the phone, made her seem rather intimidating. In person she’s less so; she’s got kind eyes that are as brown as her skin, contrasted by turquoise hipster frames.

And yet, despite her presence putting him at ease, Chris is still struggling to speak when the time comes for him to lay it all out. She’s _qualified_ , he reminds himself. She can get him where he wants—where he needs—to be.

He takes Zach’s hand from his knee and holds it tightly so he won’t destroy his cuticles in the hour they’ve got.

“I’m transgender,” he finally says. “I know that for a fact. It’s just been a matter of… coming out of denial.”

"Well, you have taken the most important step already." She smiles, and he immediately feels a little better. "All you need to do today is get me up to speed."

Chris, with some difficulty at first, recants his tale in excruciating detail. And he feels everything—years of aches in his gut, his disappointment as a child, dysphoria-induced suicidal ideation, the tremendous relief that came with Zach's acceptance. All of that at once, three decades crushing him until he’s heaving.

It's understandable that he cries, but he's still embarrassed, which only makes things worse.

Katerina hands him a tissue and asks, "Do you need a moment alone?"

Chris shakes his head.

"Can I get you anything? Water?"

"No," he chokes out.

"Zach?"

"No, thanks." Zach drapes his arm over Chris' shoulders and pulls him closer, kisses the side of his head. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispers.

After his sobs die down to sniffles, they continue.

"You really would benefit from transitioning," Katerina says, and Chris wipes his eyes.

"Yeah," he agrees, seeing Zach nod out of his peripheral. "It just scares the shit out of me."

"Transitioning is not easy, but neither is maintaining a façade. And we don't want you living like this anymore, do we, Zach?"

Zach's fingers curl into his shoulder. "No, we don't."

"So," Katerina continues, "the only thing I am going to ask you to do between now and our next meeting is research. Look up anything and everything you might want to pursue, weigh the pros and cons. I’m not asking you to make a decision, but I want you to consider all options you can think of. Will you do that?"

He knows Zach will hold him to it, so he won't be able to back out no matter how much he may panic. "I can do that."

"And stop referring to your gender as _it_."

Chris chuckles nervously. That's a little bit harder than dive-bombing into research. "Um, I'll try."

They leave the office hand in hand, catching the scathing stare of an older man in the lobby who buries his nose in his newspaper when Chris looks him in the eye.

"I'm really proud of you," Zach says. He pulls Chris into a hug in front of the car, giving him The Look.

"Dude, I cried like a fucking baby."

"Dude," Zach mocks, "you cry all the time." Then, he furrows his brow and asks, "Can I still call you dude?"

Chris huffs a laugh. "I don't mind."

  


• • •

  


Lately, instead of reading in bed before he goes to sleep, Chris is on his laptop in the study. He’s got his trusty Moleskine at his side, scribbling down names of doctors and their offices and numbers, questions already forming in his head. He sketches out a rough timeline as well, which only frustrates and disappoints him—Chris realizes he'll have to wait until they're finished filming Trek to begin hormones, and god only knows how long that will take.

_I’ve already waited this long_ , he thinks. _Another year won’t kill me_.

“Hey,” Zach says quietly, and Chris turns around to look at him. He’s in the doorway cradling Harold, rubbing the old cat’s belly. “You ready for bed yet?”

Chris sighs and turns back around to shut the laptop off. He feels Zach behind him, hears Harold purring. "This fucking sucks," he murmurs, more to himself than Zach.

"What sucks?"

"Look," he says, picking up his notebook for Zach to see. He points at the dot representing their current point in time. "That's now...." Then, he moves his finger down the line, putting them at almost a year later. "And that's about when I'll be able to start hormones."

Zach lets the cat go so he can lean over and get a better look. "Can I see what you've got so far?"

"Nosy." But he hands the notebook to Zach and turns in his chair, looking up to try and read Zach's face.

"You really want vaginoplasty?" Zach asks. He doesn't sound or look upset, just genuinely curious, despite Chris' emphasis in therapy on how much of his dysphoria stems from having a penis.

“It’s not, like—I don’t think the vagina makes the woman, you know? I just feel wrong having a dick.”

Zach sets Chris’ notebook back on the desk. “Understandable.”

“You’re not gonna beg me to keep it, are you?”

He purses his lips and places his hand on the back of the chair. “Not gonna lie, you have the prettiest cock I’ve ever seen. But no, I’d never ask that of you.” Zach sighs wistfully. “I’ll have to learn to love eating pussy.”

"Oh my god, Zachary, do not call it a pussy. That's so gross." Chris cuffs him on the shoulder once he stands.

Zach snickers as he follows Chris to the bedroom. "How many times have you said 'pussy' in place of 'vagina'?"

"Okay, don't call _mine_ a pussy."

"Eating cunt, is that better?" He comes up behind Chris before he can get to the bed and hugs him. "You'll have to teach me."

"Oh, come on. You've done it before."

"Doesn't mean I did it well."

“Did she come?”

Zach’s silence is enough of an answer.

“You always make sure your lady comes, dude!”

“I do make my lady come.” Pointedly, he slides his hand lower on Chris’ torso, just above the waist of his pajama pants, and kisses the side of his neck. “Often, actually.”

Chris giggles and pushes Zach’s hand into his pants.“Prove it.”

  


• • •

  


Before his next session, Chris is so nervous that he _does_ throw up his breakfast. He isn't fucking around anymore. He's narrowed everything down—doctors with the highest reviews, how far he'd have to travel to see said doctors, whether he wants estrogen injections or pills.

(Injections, because one shot every week is easier than keeping up with pills everyday.)

He hears Zach come in while he's gagging. Chris glances at him before leaning further down to retch again.

Zach sighs and places his hand between Chris' shoulder blades.

Really, despite his vomit-inducing anxiety about this decision, mostly regarding how all eyes will be on him, he's excited. Terrified, but this has been a long time coming. He's ready.

  


• • •

  


"Um... I'm just gonna get straight to it." Chris swallows though his mouth is dry, balls his hands into fists, and presses them into the tops of his thighs.

He’s certain his family is expecting the adoption announcement, but that's one of the things he's been covering in therapy—as much as he thinks he can, he cannot read minds.

"Chris," Katie says, "you're freaking me out."

Okay, maybe they _aren't_ expecting that after all.

Zach squeezes his shoulder.

"I'm... um, I've always felt weird, I guess, in my body. Like, it's always felt wrong." He tries to keep his voice steady to no avail. "I've always felt female, so I'm fixing it."

"Oh my god, you fucking asshole!" Katie rubs her temples. "I thought you were gonna say you have some terminal illness."

He manages a chuckle, but bites his lip and stares at his hands after looking at his parents. They're shocked, and Chris can handle that; it’s expected. What hurts is how his dad looks gutted.

Chris forces himself to look at them again. "Rather this than me dying, right?"

His mom takes a deep breath, and Chris can see her slipping into therapist mode. "Of course, honey."

He wrings his hands until Zach reaches over and stops him, giving him a sympathetic look. It's one of those moments when he's grateful to have Zach, a husband who understands this type of uncomfortable scenario.

"I'm the same person I've always been," Chris explains. "I'm just... not a guy like everyone thought I was."

"I know you are. It's just—it's strange to think my baby boy isn't actually..." Gwynne trails off.

"This has to be what losing a child feels like," Robert muses.

"Dad, come on," Katie says. "That's excessive, don't you think?"

"Chris." Robert sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. "I love you unconditionally, you know that."

"But?" Chris moves closer to Zach. He has to. He'd accept even the smallest touch right now, something as simple as their pinky fingers hooked together, so he's relieved when he feels Zach's palm on his nape, fingers curling into his hair.

"I need to process this, Christopher. But I love you. Nothing can change that."

Chris chokes up a little, having to clear his throat before he speaks up again. "I love you, too. And—and all I want is for you to be there for me." He looks from his dad to his mom. "I want your support. That's all."

"We're here for you." Gwynne leans over, reaching across the table, and Chris takes her hands, a minuscule amount of tension leaving his chest. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

He tears one of his hands away to wipe his eyes. "Because it's fucking scary, and I spent years trying to be a boy when I'm... not."

Again, his dad looks almost offended.

"Zach," Katie cuts in. "I'm guessing everything is fine between you two since you're here, but how do you feel about this?"

They're all looking at Zach now, and Chris is glad to have all eyes off him for a moment.

"Great, actually." Zach glances at him, one corner of his mouth quirking. "I'm by his side, one-hundred percent.”

"Good." Katie is glaring at Zach the same way she did upon finding out they were engaged. "Because I still have no qualms about hurting you."

  


• • •

  


Chris is _really_ good at sucking cock—he likes to think so, anyway. He prides himself on his ability to make Zach whimper and squirm the way he is now.

After a particularly deep stroke, one that almost makes him gag, Zach slides his hands up from Chris' shoulders to cup his cheeks. "Good girl," he breathes, so quiet Chris almost misses it.

The hand around his own dick squeezes, and he pulls off of Zach to give his hip a wet kiss. "Say that again."

Zach's fingers comb through his hair, tugging the slightest bit. "Good girl," he repeats. “You like when I call you that?"

"Yeah," Chris drawls."I love it."

  


• • •

  


Joe was easy enough—they had their standard lunch meeting, the one they have every few months to catch up. Awkward as expected, but easy, quickly gaining his support.

With Margo, Chris is glad it's happening over the phone so he can shamelessly attach himself to Zach's side, crowding him against the arm of the couch.

“Ready?” Zach asks. He's already got her contact info pulled up.

He tucks his head under Zach's chin. “As I'll ever be.”

Zach hits the phone icon, and it dials her number. He puts the call on speaker. “Love you,” he whispers into Chris' hair and, right after that, the line picks up. “Oh—hi, Mom!”

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says brightly. “How are you?”

“Pretty good. Chris is here, too. He's being shy.”

Chris elbows him in the ribs.

“Aw, Christopher.”

“Hi,” he murmurs. “How have you been, Mom?”

She talks about her week, about church events, about the weird ache in her upper back that they've been nagging her to get checked out.

Once there's a lull in conversation, they look at each other. It's go time.

“So,” Zach begins. “Chris has something to tell you.”

He sighs; shouldn't this be easier by now? It is a little bit, but only enough for him to stop stalling. “I'm transgender,” he says. “Um, I'm a woman.”

“ _Oh_.”

“Aw, Mama, come on. You're getting what you always wanted. I married a beautiful woman after all,” Zach jokes.

“Zachary, hush.” Her tone is jarring.

“I-I'm still the same person,” Chris stutters. “I hope this doesn't change your opinion of me.”

“I'm not right sure _what_ to think,” she says after a pause that is way too long. “This doesn't exactly coincide with my beliefs.”

“I know.”

“But you're married to my son, and I _do_ love you like one of my own...”

Chris is trembling. He's never been met with anything but support—he guesses this is just Margo's version, extremely reluctant but by his side nonetheless. He hopes so, anyway.

Sheepishly, he says, "I love you, too."

She doesn't ask too many questions, which Chris is honestly glad for; he's so close to tears that he just wants the call to end. But he answers them, trying to quell her confusion about what this means about Zach's sexuality, explaining how Chris knows he's trans and what's in store.

After they hang up he can't hold back anymore, and he breaks down. Tears and gasping breaths quickly escalate to loud, gut-wrenching sobs. He hasn't cried this hard since he told Zach.

"Chris," Zach says softly. He splays his fingers over Chris' belly, rubs his torso in long, soothing strokes. "It's okay, baby."

"I feel like—I feel like I fucked up," he chokes out. "I just pushed your mom away."

"You didn't," Zach assures him. "I know my mom, okay? Everything she said, that's the same shit she told me when _I_ came out. She's not gonna win any PFLAG awards. She's older. She's religious. It takes time for her to grasp these things."

Chris' sobs have died down some, now just painful hiccups. He leans into Zach, tucking his head under his chin, and tries to even out his breathing. But the way Zach is cupping his cheek, his other hand resting on Chris' back, it keeps him crying. He's always so thankful for Zach after having these discussions about gender, wondering how the fuck he lucked out so much as to have a husband who's been so supportive from the get-go.

He's been thinking it can't be that simple, no fucking way, but maybe he's wrong. If he turns the scenario around and puts himself in Zach's shoes, he knows what they have—this love, this bond—is enough. Because gender and sexual preferences be damned, Zach would still be Zach, just like _she_ is still Chris.

 


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris decides to test the waters.

After years of wishful online-window shopping, Chris begins buying things. Not a lot and definitely nothing major—just panties for now, but even that feels like a huge step.

Zach helps, sort of. "Those would look nice on you," he says, pointing out a pair of black, cage-backed panties. There's a little bow on the waistband above the ass.

"You just want easy access," Chris teases. She adds them to the cart anyway and figures three pairs is enough to start with. "You know my ass is probably going to get bigger, right?"

“ Oh my  _ god _ .”

She smirks as she types in her card number.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Now that she can openly be upset about waking up and realizing that yes, that _thing_ is still there and it did not morph into a vagina overnight, Chris isn't sure how she kept her bad dysphoria days secret before.

She's always longed to be held in her worst moments, and this is pretty up there. Despite knowing that she's definitely, absolutely a transgender woman, she feels like a phony. She misgenders herself all the fucking time, and she still sees a guy in the mirror, one that she's unfortunately familiar with.

She's always longed to be held in these moments, so she settles herself in Zach's lap after a particularly stressful shower. Having dried off as quickly as possible, her hair is still dripping a little and there are damp splotches on her shirt.

Zach slips his arms around her anyway. 

  
  


• • •

  
  


List after list of names, and nothing sticks out. Nothing sparks her interest or makes her feel anything. It seems like the hundredth time she's looked.

(It's the fourth.)

She sighs when Zach calls her into the kitchen for dinner, shoving her phone in her back pocket; 'no phones at the table unless it's urgent' is her rule, though she figures Zach wouldn't give her any flak for breaking it just this once.

Zach isn't as experienced or experimental in the kitchen as she is, but he's not a bad cook by any means. He's spent the last couple of hours hovering over the stove, cooking up a few day's worth of split pea soup. Vegetarian, because Zach refuses to eat pork—"pigs are  _ smart _ , Chris"—but fucking delicious nonetheless.

"How's your name hunt going?" Zach asks, then resumes blowing on the soup in his spoon.

Chris, on the other hand, may as well be inhaling the stuff. "Terrible."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"You could just use Chris, drop the -topher?"

She shrugs and swirls her spoon around the bowl. "I dunno. I like being called Chrissy, but I don't like it as an actual name."

"Christine?"

"Not feeling it." It's silent for a moment, save for the sound of silverware on ceramic. "I wish it would just come to me."

  
  


• • •

  
  


It's Zach's idea to start referring to her asshole as her cunt. In theory, it makes her giggle, because it sounds like something straight out of an amateur porno. A really, really bad porno.

In practice, though, it's got her begging for more.

  
  


• • •

  
  


If Chris is guesstimating correctly, she won't be able to start hormones until early 2016. February, maybe. Just under a year.

Comancheria shouldn't take more than a couple of months, but Star Trek could eat up the rest of 2015. Nothing is set in stone, and in the grand scheme of things another year is fucking nothing, so she lets herself cry but not for long.

In the meantime, she can get everything ready. Katerina has already approved her for hormones, it's just a matter of writing the recommendation letter and finding an endocrinologist.

(Settling on a name might be a good idea, too.)

A year. Just another year.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Zach enters the bathroom just as she's finishing up with the electric razor. "Whoa," he says, stopping in his tracks. "Hello."

"Hi," she says, barely able to bite back a smile.

"Damn, it's been a while." He strokes Chris' cheek with the pad of his thumb. "You're going all the way?"

"Yeah."

"Dysphoria?"

"No, actually." She kisses him, then lets him get away to start his shower. "I've been using the beard as a security blanket, I guess."

Zach nods. He turns to face Chris as he strips. "How do you feel?"

Chris inhales, taking in how her heart is pounding as she lathers up her face, legitimately nervous about being clean-shaven. "Anxious."

She's not sure if it takes forever for her to shave or if Zach just takes fast showers. Either way, he hops out when Chris is going over spots she missed.

"Jesus," Zach breathes.

"What?"

"Nothing." He secures his towel around his hips once he's done drying his hair and comes up behind Chris, kisses her cheek after she wipes her face. "I have the most beautiful wife ever, that's all."

Chris half-smiles. She still struggles to view herself as a woman, even with the new pronouns and constant validation from Zach and her family. It's strange to hear Zach refer to her as his wife, but it's definitely not bad.

  
  


• • •

  
  


She and Katerina spend some time brainstorming things that might ease her dysphoria for now. Chris' homework for the next two weeks is to see if shaving helps—not just her face, but her legs, chest, and armpits—and to look into more appropriate clothing.

  
  


• • •

At her request, Katie takes her outside of L.A. so they're less likely to be seen.

"Okay, would you rather start off slow or just dive right into it?" Katie taps her chin as she looks at Chris. "We can find some stuff similar to what you already wear, or we can just cut out the middle-man and go straight to dresses and shit."

"Um... no dresses yet," she says. "I dunno, just pick out anything you think might look okay on me?"

Katie grins. "We should’ve brought Zach. He'd have a fucking field day."

Chris follows her sister around, not speaking up too much but occasionally giving her input on whether or not she likes something Katie's looking at.

After what feels like eight hours but is actually two, they approach the checkout counter with their loot. Mostly shirts with differing necklines (she's particularly fond of a dark grey, sleeveless, cowl-necked top that Katie insists with look fantastic), some basic makeup, and a pair of yoga pants that she tries to refuse.

"Trust me," Katie says. "You'll thank me later."

  
  


• • •

  
  


Being Katie, she insists on coming in, at least long enough to see Chris model some of the new stuff.

"You've seen me in this shit before," Chris says, though she's not at all opposed to her sister sticking around. "I wear V-necks all the time."

"I wanna see you in that cowl neck. It'll be cute as hell, I know it."

"Dude, I'm self-conscious about this shit."

"Aw, c'mon. It's  _ me _ ." Katie cocks her head and pouts. "Would I lead my baby sister astray?"

Zach comes in while she's digging through the bag. "Any luck?" he asks, leaning against the back of the couch.

Chris frowns. "I'm being forced to model." She shoots a glare in Katie's direction and tugs her shirt off, then pulls the cowl neck top on. It's almost as soft as the V-necks she favors, which is nice, and it's miraculously not too tight.

And it's not just comfortable in the physical sense. It gives her the same light, floaty feeling she's felt while crossdressing for certain roles.

"See? You look fine, babe." Katie gathers her up in a hug and squeezes. "You're so pretty."

She blushes under Zach's gaze, her face heating up even more when he kisses her. "You look happy," he says. He keeps his arm around her shoulders. "What else did you get?"

"Just shirts," Chris answers. "And makeup."

"And yoga pants," Katie adds.

"Really, now? You're doing the Lord's work, Katherine." Zach's hand slides down to the small of her back and, before he can grope Chris' ass, she shoulder checks him. "You said makeup?"

Which is how she ends up in a kitchen chair, her husband and sister doing up her face. It reminds her of the days when Katie used to dress her up and practice various makeup techniques on her.

"Aw, Chrissy, we have to send a picture to Mom and Dad." Katie is already pulling up the app, and when Chris sees herself in the front-facing camera, she can't stop grinning. She looks more polished than anything, the way she does for photo shoots and movies, but Katie's worked some kind of magic with a simple contouring kit and minimal eye makeup.

Zach leans in to be in the photo, too.

(Gwynne likes it so much she makes it her wallpaper.)

  
  


• • •

  
  


Chris decides to test the waters.

She showers, shaves, lotions up with some melon-y spearmint shit Katie gave her, and emerges from the bathroom feeling victorious.

And smooth. Really fucking smooth. It only took three razors and damn near clogging the drain.

Zach is still in the living room, so she steals one of his longer shirts, throws on the cage-backed panties he loves so much, and makes her way to him.

Casually, she plucks Zach's phone from his hand and sets it on the end table, then sits in his lap, straddling him.

"Mm, you smell good," he says. He rubs Chris’ thighs. “And you’re smooth.”

She leans over and kisses him slowly, pulling away once he tries to part her lips with his tongue. "So, you're still into me when I'm in girl mode."

"Is that not your default?"

"Well, yeah, but this is the first time I've gone all out." She wiggles her hips, presses her ass against his dick. Zach groans. "And you seem pretty interested."

"I  _ am  _ pretty interested."

  
  


• • •

  
  


Upon reading through another list of names, Chris almost throws her phone in excitement. She doesn't, but she does smack it down triumphantly. Zach looks at her from the other end of the couch, face partially obscured by a box of lo mein.

The name has finally jumped out at her; it’s one she’s seen a dozen times before, definitely one she’s considered but hesitated to choose because of how silly it seems to pick something so close to her birth name.

But fuck it. It makes her grin and her heart pound, and it feels right.

"I fucking found it," she says.

"What?"

"The name."

"The name?"

" _ The  _ name, dude."

"What is it?"

She picks the phone up and looks at it again. "Christy." She looks over at Zach. "With a -y, not -ie."

"Hmm." Zach nibbles the edge of his fork, staring at her thoughtfully. Then, he murmurs, "Christy."

"I like it."

"I do, too. It's cute." He smiles a little. "It suits you."

 


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t want to play this part anymore.

Zach accompanies Christy to the doctor, because her track record of not feeling woozy after blood draws is pretty fucking poor. She can't even look at the needle, having to hide her face in Zach's shoulder and squeeze his hand before it's even in her arm.

It doesn't hurt, and she can't really feel it, but the adrenaline spike makes her feel terrible afterward. But if she does this now, she can start hormones sooner after filming is finished, and that's worth the trouble.

  
  


• • •

  
  


"This is stressing me the fuck out," Christy says, pacing alongside the bed. "I don't want to have to be closeted again."

"Baby, sit." Zach pats the spot on his right, the side not occupied by Skunk. "You're panicking."

"I can't." She runs her hands through her hair. It's longer than she normally keeps it, because she can actually get away with that for Comancheria—but she has to have facial hair. Her stubble is growing out quickly, and it’s pointless to shave to the skin at this point. "I can't do this again."

"Christopher," he says, immediately realizing his mistake. "God, fuck. Sorry."

She cringes and tries to remind herself that slipups happen. It's not like Zach meant to call her the wrong name. Normally, she can shrug these things off; given the timing, it stings.

"I'm sorry, Christy." Again, he pats the space next to him.

"It's okay." She sits but puts a little distance between them. "Bad timing, that's all."

Zach nods and squeezes her shoulder. "I'm sorry you have to go through all this bullshit."

Christy shrugs. At least after Trek, she'll never have to hide again.

  
  


• • •

  
  


She doesn't meet with the endocrinologist in an exam room, but in his office. It's fairly generic: dark blue carpet, white walls, some personal photos hung up around framed diplomas. Christy can only assume that the stout, intimidating looking man in a couple of the photos is Dr. Scott—

And she's right, although he's less intimidating in person.

"Pine?" he asks. When Christy nods, he grins and offers his hand. Firm grip. "Terrence Scott. Your psychologist said you go by Christy?"

"Yeah." She smiles, maybe wider than she should but fuck, she's nervous. She's been fidgeting since she sat down in the waiting room. "Nice to meet you."

"You too, Christy. Lovely name, by the way." Dr. Scott nods and sits behind his desk. "How are you? Excited, I imagine?"

"Oh, yeah, for sure."

"You should be! It's about time you get on the right track. If I recall correctly..." he pauses and looks at something on the computer screen, tipping his head forward and squinting. "Yes, that—you wouldn't be able to begin treatment until early next year?"

Christy nods, picking at a clear-polished thumb. "I just wanted to get this out of the way."

"I hear that. You get this done, you can start hormones ASAP." He pulls a couple of stapled papers from a manila folder and scans over the top page. "Let's get right to it, shall we?

“So, for a biological male of your age, both your estrogen and testosterone levels are in the average range." Dr. Scott folds his hands neatly on top of the little packet. "Now, even under these circumstances, I like to administer an anti-androgen in addition to the estradiol."

"And that just lowers the testosterone some, right?"

"Right. And, although this depends on the woman, it can speed up the process."

She scrunches her mouth up. This is something she's considered, of course, torn between convenience while traveling and wanting something closer to instant gratification.

"I'll give it a try," she says.

  
  


• • •

  
  


The best part of being out, Christy maintains, is that she can kiss Zach at the airport. It's not like she'll be gone long, or far away—she's just off to New Mexico for a month or two to film Comancheria.

"I love you," Zach says against her cheek. "Call when you land."

"I will." She hugs him tightly one last time. "I love you, too."

  
  


• • •

  
  


It's exhausting, leading this double life. At work, on set, she is he—he is Chris, and Chris is just one of the guys. 

She loathes it.

The movie itself is fun; working with Bridges is a dream come true. But having to do the rugged, masculine thing? Being required to have the stupidest moustache? Her self esteem hasn't been this low in  _ months _ . It's like she has to stay in character 24/7, and the consequence for slipping up is potentially outing herself.

Acting is no longer the escape it used to be. In the past, pretending to be a man was easy—she was getting paid to play a role she'd been doing her entire life.

Now, it's not so easy. She doesn’t want to play this part anymore.

  
  


• • •

  
  


The first thing she does upon returning to Silver Lake (after kissing Zach and giving the animals ear scritches, of course) is take a shower. A  _ long _ shower so she can use all of her women-intended toiletries to rid herself of stale plane air and a month and a half of masculinity.

Zach is waiting for her, stretched out on the bed. After she throws on her usual lazy day garb—her baggiest shirt and those fucking yoga pants—Christy curls up with him, resting her head on his shoulder. They've been apart for much longer stretches of time, but anything longer than a week makes her crave Zach's presence. She slides her hand up his shirt, feeling both coarse and downy hair.

He takes that hand and brings it to his lips, kisses her knuckles and murmurs against her skin, "Missed you, baby."

  
  


• • •

  
  


Star Trek is rapidly approaching. In a couple of weeks, give or take, she'll be in Vancouver.

She's excited to work with such good friends again; she is not excited about having her hair cropped, nor the unknown length of time standing between her and a syringe of estradiol.

"It's gonna be short, Zachary," Christy reiterates, running her fingers through her still-shaggy hair. She's been gazing in the mirror for a solid five minutes, surprised that Zach hasn't pulled her away yet.

"Lots of women have short hair, baby."

"I know; but that's... that's the fucking thing. Nobody sees me as a woman."

"I do," Zach says. She can hear the determination in his voice. "Your parents. Katie. Joe."

"Your mom, on a good day."

Zach snorts and takes her hand, leads her out of the bathroom. "That's enough wallowing for the next while."

Christy goes back to her half-packed suitcase, folding the last few shirts she has piled next to it. "God, I'm freaking out about a haircut."

"You think I didn't flip out the first time I had to get the Spock cut? I mean, wildly different circumstances, but..."

"Not that different from your hair as a kid, dear."

"Exactly. War flashbacks."

  
  


• • •

  
  


"Hey," Zach says, kicking the footrest of her chair. They're in hair and makeup, preparing to get the haircuts they'll have to don for the next several months. "At least we're suffering together?"

She appreciates the sentiment, but that doesn't make it suck any less. It doesn't ease the pain Christy feels as she stares at herself in the hotel room's full-length mirror, poking at her hair.

Zach quite literally has to drag her to bed. "Stop being difficult," he says. "I know it sucks."

"You  _ don't _ know."

"I mean, as a general statement. I know why it sucks, and I know you're going to feel worse if you keep wallowing."

She can't argue with that. "I just feel so fucking hideous."

"You're far from it, baby." Zach cradles her face and gives her a chaste kiss, then presses their foreheads together.

Christy can't quite make herself believe that.

  
  


• • •

  
  


As of late, her Skype therapy sessions have been short because there's really not a whole lot to say. Work is fine, she and Zach are fine, dysphoria is still bad.

"I don't know what else I can do," she says, throwing her hands around. "Sex helps a little, but we're too tired most of the time. And I can't... I'm too paranoid to bring my other clothes. Like, I'm afraid someone's going to find them and I'll be kicked out of the closet when I haven't even told my PR team."

"You said you're planning to do that once you start hormones?"

"Yeah." Christy scratches the back of her head. "I don't see the point in telling them now."

"Well," Katerina begins. "They would have time to process and adjust. They wouldn't have to come up with a statement on the fly for when you do finally come out."

She's right, one-hundred percent. Christy knows she needs to suck it up and go through with it. Coming out has gotten a little easier, at least in terms of forcing the words out, but it's still unnerving.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Christy has a couple of days off, so she takes advantage and flies back to L.A. As much as she'd love to use this time to relax and try to take the edge off her dysphoria, she has to have A Meeting.  _ The _ Meeting, the one where she tells her agent and publicist.

This is a conversation best had in private, much like the one they had when she and Zach decided to go public, so she invites them over, emphasizing that it's important and apologizing for the short notice.

They sit on the patio, mostly so Christy can smoke. She can spit it out pretty easily now, but there's still the tiniest hint of adrenaline, enough to keep her on edge; she doesn't think that will ever go away, no matter how open-minded the people on the other end are.

"So, um." She takes a long drag off her cigarette and sighs on the exhale. "I'm transgender."

Both of them go wide-eyed.

"Come again?" John, her agent, asks. Melissa is just sitting there, her mouth agape but partially covered by her hand.

"I'm transgender," she repeats, more confidence in her tone this time. "I'm a woman."

"So, what, you're Bruce Jenner now?"

"Her name is Caitlyn." She ignores his scoff. "I'm transitioning after we finish filming Trek."

"Chris, that's PR suicide," John argues.

"I don't care." Christy sits up straighter and stubs out her cigarette. "And my name is Christy."

Melissa clears her throat. "It's not PR suicide," she says, looking ahead at Christy like John isn't there. "Transgender people are pretty well received now; Caitlyn, for example. And Laverne Cox—everyone in the free world knows about her, and they love her."

"I don't even care how it's received. I just want it out there so I can live my life."

She can practically feel John's discomfort, stronger than any she ever felt from her dad. He's fiddling with his keys, no longer looking at her or Melissa.

"Do you have any idea how you want to go public with this, babe?" Melissa asks.

Christy is kind of glad for her lack of reaction. She's reminded of Zach and her sister, arguably her biggest supporters, treating the news like it's no big deal.

Before she can say anything, John asks, "Wouldn't an interview be the only way to go?"

"Not necessarily." Now, Melissa is touching her chin the way she does when she's thinking hard. "We could just make a statement. Hell, you could get Zach to do it via Instagram if you really wanted to."

"I dunno." Christy chews the cuticle on her thumb. "I don't want my words twisted around, you know? But I don't see how Instagram would work."

"Easy. Zach posts a photo of you, and knowing him, he'd write a novel for a caption."

She chuckles because Melissa is right, he  _ would _ do that. "Yeah, no. Not my jam."

Melissa clicks her tongue. "I figured as much. So, statement? Interview?"

When she came out as bisexual and brought her relationship with Zach to the public, they went with statements. Those were short and to the point; they fit the situation. A statement wouldn't be enough with this, especially if she wants her voice to be heard.

"I guess an interview would be the best way to go." Christy lights up another cigarette, stressed out by the mere thought of the questions she'll be faced with. "So I can go into detail."

"It'd probably be the fastest, too," John says, a hint of disdain in his voice. "The source could hype it up and get a buzz going, so when it comes out it'll be everywhere." 

_ Everywhere _ . God, that's terrifying.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Ridiculous as it is, Christy has reminders set on her phone for monthly marks to see how close they are to the estimated end of principal photography.

Today, it says there's a month remaining.

"Zach!" She slaps his shoulder excitedly and holds her phone out. They've just woken up, so he squints at her, confused. "We have a month left!"

Zach groans. "That's, like, forever."

Christy drops her phone back on the side table and swings a leg over Zach's hips, then straddles him. "I can start estrogen in a month! Well, a month- _ ish _ ."

He smiles a little and rests his hands on her thighs. "You ready?"

"Dude, I've  _ been _ ready."

  
  


• • •

  
  


Filming finishes earlier than originally anticipated—she assumed it would take up the rest of the year, but no; it’s mid-October, and Christy could not be happier.

The day after they return to L.A., she makes calls to schedule the appointment with Dr. Scott and the first round of electrolysis, and she picks up the testosterone blockers that have been waiting at the pharmacy. 

(Really, she's most excited about being able to wear her clothes again, maybe more than she is to see Star Trek come to fruition.)

 


	5. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're trying to get everything in order, and that's good, that's great. But you need to relax."

The week and a half leading up to Christy's appointment with Dr. Scott is filled with hellish anxiety, disbelief and excited jitters because this is finally happening. The morning of the appointment, it's out of control. She can barely eat, and she's got the full-body shakes.

Like he agreed to months ago, Zach accompanies her. He holds Christy's hand in his lap, the other squeezing her thigh, and beams when she's called back.

The shot doesn't hurt; she barely even feels it. But she's so worked up that the adrenaline has her panicking, beyond the normal light-headedness she feels when needles are involved. She has to stay in the exam room for an extra few minutes until she feels okay, sipping water from a Dixie cup while Zach rubs her back.

Outside, Zach cups her face and kisses her, lingering longer than either of them usually would for something in public. "I'm so proud of you," he whispers, and kisses her again. "I love you."

Christy has been floating all day from her extreme level of anxiety, but now it's not so bad. Now, she's buzzing with elation and love and she feels good, so good.

  
  


• • •

  
  


In the first week alone, there are small changes. Her libido is stronger; it's like she's hyper-aware of Zach's scent, and she wants him all the time.

From what she can tell, he isn't opposed.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Christy is eager to get everything planned, texting Melissa daily about the yet-to-be-set-up interview. She's researching surgeons more thoroughly and reading up on electrolysis (which only serves to scare the shit out of her, because it starts next week and it's going to fucking hurt).

"Christy," Zach says calmly, dropping his hands on the back of her chair. "It's been two weeks."

"I know, I'm—"

He turns her chair around and leans over so they're face-to-face. "I know, baby. You're trying to get everything in order, and that's good, that's great." He's speaking slowly, and she supposes it has the intended effect—it calms her a little. "But you need to relax."

"I know."

"One thing at a time, okay?"

Christy groans. "This is such a long fucking process."

"Yeah, and even having everything perfectly planned out isn't going to speed it up." She pouts, and Zach kisses her forehead. "Sorry to be the disappointing voice of reason."

"I need it." She sighs and turns around to shut the laptop. Zach is right, as he tends to be when she gets like this. She needs to slow down.

When she gets up to leave the study, Zach slips his arms around her waist and kisses her forehead.

  
  


• • •

  
  


"Fucking—ow," Christy hisses. She feels herself up again with soapy hands, wincing. But she feels them, and when she lets the spray hit her chest she sees them: the very beginnings of breasts, pointy little buds.

She hastily finishes scrubbing herself so she can examine herself in the mirror, a habit she's been trying hard to break to yield disappointment at how long the changes will take. They're there, just barely.

"Zach!" she calls into the bedroom. "Dude, you have to come see this."

"I don't want to see another zit popping."

"It's not, I promise. Just come here."

Zach sighs but enters the en suite, looking at her expectantly.

"Look, dude." She pokes at them gently, delighting in how she can feel the tiniest bit of fatty tissue.

"Whoa, holy shit." He gawks for a moment before looking back at her face. "Can I touch them?"

"Absolutely not." Christy can't help but be amused at his obvious disappointment, and she wonders why the fuck she ever thought Zach wouldn't be attracted to her. "You can feel me up all you want once they stop hurting."

  
  


• • •

  
  


For the fourth shot, Christy gets the nurse to show her how it's done. She's not thrilled about having to stab herself in the thigh on a weekly basis, but it's a small price to pay for being happy in her body.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Things that would normally make her cock stir have no effect. Girls in high-waisted cut-offs, Zach freeballing around the house. And if they do, it's not like she gets rock hard like she used to.

But when Zach kisses her? When he scratches her sides and sucks at her neck and whimpers like Christy's doing him a favor by allowing him to touch her? There are wet spots on her underwear before she can even get her pants off.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Seeing as her family isn't particularly religious, they have no problem postponing their holidays until a few days after the fact. So for Christmas, she and Zach are in Pennsylvania. It's just her, Zach, Joe, and their mother.

It's quiet, which is what she needs after months of hectic filming. Christy's not as calm as she would be at home, because, well... while Margo has adjusted a little bit, that's the thing: it’s just a little bit.

The problem is not just a matter of Margo taking her Catholicism seriously; she has trouble grasping the concept. They've discussed it some—Zach has even gotten argumentative at times—and she doesn't get it, which is understandable. She's older, and she's stubborn in her belief that the body you're born with is a gift and should remain as is.

Not to say she's completely disrespectful. Though she still refers to Christy as Chris, she does her best to use the right pronouns.

Christy is happy to spend time with Zach's family, but quite frankly, she can't wait to go home where she's accepted wholeheartedly.

  
  


• • •

  
  


On the way to their parents' house from LAX, Katie glances at her and says, "I've been talking to Luca about all this."

"And?"

"He's five. He doesn't give a shit. He asked me if you'll still play with him and if he can still come spend the night and sleep with the dogs."

Zach snickers. "Kids are so easy."

  
  


• • •

  
  


They don't stick around very long on the first night, but go back early the next morning after having an adequate night's sleep.

(And sex. Really good sex.)

Christy hasn't seen her nephew in what feels like ages. She's oddly relieved when he runs up for a hug, despite Katie reassuring her that no, Luca does not give a single fuck that his uncle is now an auntie.

At the end of the night when they decide to head out, Luca tugs at the hem of Christy's shirt.

"Christy," he says. Luca's used her name at least a hundred times tonight; he's obsessed with it, cramming it in as many sentences as he can. It's endearing, especially with his slight lisp. "Christy, can I come with you?"

She looks to Zach, who nods, then to Katie.

"You sure? You just got back in town," she says.

"Yeah, of course I'm sure." Christy ruffles Luca's hair. "I haven't seen this kid in forever."

  
  


• • •

  
  


In the morning while Zach showers, Christy makes pancakes. Luca helps by sitting on the counter and filling her in on everything—the French toast Nana made yesterday, kindergarten, whatever comes to mind.

“Christy?” he asks, kicking his little legs back and forth, feet whacking the cupboards.

“Knock it off,” she scolds, tapping his leg with her free hand. “What's up?”

“You're s'posed to be a girl now, right? But you don't look like a girl.”

“You don't have to look like a girl to be a girl. Same for boys.”

He pauses to ponder this. “Have you always been a girl?”

“Sure have.”

“So you're my aunt?”

Christy cocks her head to the side, staring at the skillet. That's somehow the strangest title change. “Yeah, I am.”

“Okay.” He kicks his legs again. “Can I stay again?”

She chuckles. She can't help but be amused at how that was the easiest coming out conversation—with a five year old, over pancakes.

  
  


• • •

  
  


After Luca goes to bed, curled up safe and sound in the guest room with the dogs, Christy slinks back into the living room and leans over the back of the couch. She wraps her arms around Zach's shoulders and kisses him behind his ear, sighing against his skin.

"My biological clock is ticking," she says.

"Excuse me?"

She walks around and sits next to him, leaning into his side. "You're so good with Luca.”

"So are you." He wiggles his arm between her and the couch. "You're gonna be a really amazing mom one day."

Christy grins. Her childhood dream is slowly coming true.

  
  


• • •

  
  


In order to celebrate the interview being scheduled, she and Zach head over to her parents' house. They don't do much—they sit in the sun room with a bottle of wine, watching the sky turn from blue to orange and pink.

Her mother and Zach have drifted into their own conversation, leaving Christy and her dad to themselves on the porch swing. In the early days after her coming out, it might have been awkward. Not to say that he's ever been anything less than supportive, but he was slightly more reserved when she started showing up in girlish tops.

Now, though, it's easy. He's got his arm slung around her shoulders, one of which is exposed by her shirt's asymmetrical neckline.

“I'm really scared,” she admits. “Like, this is exactly why I've spent the last few decades in hiding.”

“Chrissy, I'm going to give you a piece of advice that's been passed down in my family for generations: Fuck what anyone else has to say about this.” Christy starts to giggle, and he squeezes her shoulder. “I mean it! You're not hurting anyone, so fuck'em.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She grins at him and hears a camera shutter, looking over to see Zach playing paparazzi. “We're having a moment, asshole.”

“Why do you think I'm photographing it?” Zach smiles and takes the camera off them.

Christy shakes her head, but nonetheless asks Zach to send her the photo.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Christy can't deny that being on hormones has made her more emotional, but she doesn't realize just how much it's affected her until she's a weeping heap of anxiety in the study.

"Hey," Zach says, quickly crossing the room to kneel in front of the chaise lounge she's curled up on. "What's the matter?"

She's barely able to make herself look at him. "The interview is soon," she moans.

"A week and some change, right?"

Christy nods and another sob comes out. "I'm so fucking scared, Zach."

His face falls, softening with sympathy. "I know you are," he murmurs. He pushes her hair back, pulls her hands away from her face so she can't hide.

"I should have done all of this a long time ago."

"There's no 'should,' sweetheart." Zach says. "There's no point in lingering on what you could have done back then."

"I know."

"You're doing it now. That's what matters."

"I know," she says again, and she exhales slowly. There are many things Zach can't simply kiss away and this kind of regret is near the top of that list, but he can at least make her feel a little better.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Zach has to jet out to New York for a few days. Just a few, yet when he comes back, his jaw drops.

"I never realized how different you look," he says, cupping her cheek.

"Is that good?"

He nods and pecks the corner of her mouth. "Your face is rounder. Oh," he murmurs, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "And I can see your boobs. Like, it's high time to invest in a bra."

Christy's eyes widen and she crosses her arms, wondering if the airport paps got any incriminating shots. Still, she can't help but laugh at how serious Zach's voice is.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Zach glares at her jokingly from his sink, only half of his face shaved by the time she's done. Electrolysis has taken away a lot of her facial hair, so shaving is a much faster process.

"You suck," he says, but accepts the quick kiss she offers on the way out.

  
  


• • •

  
  


Initially, she's not excited about taking photos; Christy wishes she could just give this interview without having to flash a camera in her face.

Then, she looks at herself in the mirror after makeup, and she's fucking thrilled. She's been contoured and styled to hell and back to appear more feminine. Her jaw looks less sharply angled, her features more rounded.

Zach kisses her carefully, making sure not to fuck up the makeup. "You're fucking stunning." He looks... his eyes look a little watery, or maybe she's just imagining it. "You ready?"

"Not at all."

He snickers and kisses her again. "Let's go do an interview."

  
  


• • •

  
  


They receive advance copies of the magazine in the mail, as well as prints of the photos they took. They're all lovely, but Christy’s favorites are a triptych of her and Zach in front of a window overlooking the city, facing away from the camera.

In the first, Zach's fingers are splayed across the small of her back, and they're both facing forward. Christy's bra strap is poking out.

The second, he's kissing her cheek.

The last one, she's turned her head for a kiss. She remembers it vividly for some reason, the absolute serenity she felt in that moment. City noises, the familiar press of Zach's lips, the shutter of a camera, the photographer saying how perfect the shot was.

As she admires them, it hits her: She feels like a woman. It's not just her reminding herself that she doesn't have to play pretend anymore. She knows. She can feel it in her bones that she is Christy.

She hangs those photos above their bed.

 


End file.
